Where’s my damn schwag?

I have a bone to pick with Royal Mail, and not for the first time. There’s still no sign of even an attempted delivery of my Valleyschwag care package, dammit. Though I’m not that surprised; less than a year ago it took over a week for a postcard from my mother to get from Yorkshire to Velcro City – the York postmark was dated the day of posting, so the problem (as always) was at the Velcro City end.

It might help if they actually employed people with basic literacy and numeracy skills. I have had to redeliver three letters this week alone which came through the letterbox despite being clearly addressed to not only different house numbers, but different streets as well. I don’t blame the employees so much (as most of them are poor suckers on agency rosters who, thanks to Royal Mail’s arcane and bizarre staffing policies*, can’t actually guarantee having any work from one day to the next), but it’s bloody frustrating to know that the country that invented the postal service now has one that, despite raking in hideous profits from what is essentially the last state-sponsored monopoly, can’t actually perform its core service with any sort of reliability whatsoever. As I have mentioned before, their performance might improve if they wasted less time and resources on delivering direct-mail promotional materials, for services that I not only don’t want but have no need for either (car insurance, accounting courses and over-50s dating services – haven’t they at least heard of demographic research?).
I’d write a letter of complaint if I thought there was some chance of it a) being delivered and b) being replied to.

Rant over. I want my schwag! [/sulking]

( * Yes, I speak from a position of knowledge on this, having done a week as a delivery temp. These ridiculous and circuitous policies probably have a lot to do with why they insist on all temps signing an industrial non-disclosure form before they start work.)

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